


Rockstar

by feverbeats



Category: Bandom RPF
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-30
Updated: 2009-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:51:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Death is very <i>in</i>," Patrick says, trying to play it cool, even though he's worried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rockstar

**Author's Note:**

> Includes snippets of some of the first stuff I wrote in Bandom. Written for loveyouallwrong.

You know what it's really hard to do when you're singing on stage? Stare at your bassist. See, Patrick Stump has been making careful observations on the matter, and it's really fucking with him. He looks retarded when he's half-turned to see Pete. Besides, it's incredibly conspicuous. The worst part is, Pete doesn't even notice. Patrick will be practically spinning in circles to stare at Pete in the middle of a verse, and Pete won't even see. Know why? Because Pete is _twirling in fucking circles_ with his guitar.

Patrick hate hate hates the spinning thing. And okay, no, he doesn't really, because it makes his mouth hang open, but _still_.

Tonight, screaming fans are packed into the room, and it cannot be _legal_ for that many people to be in one place. Fire hazard, and all. This is why Patrick likes performing outside. You can't be trapped by mobs of lunatics. Not that he always thinks of their fans as lunatics. Just sometimes. Pete doesn't help. He leads the fans on, plays into it. They eat it up. Patrick wishes he could be such a people person. He's good at running damage control on angsty drama queens, but that's about it. Pete comes _alive_ when he's around people.

Backstage, after the show, Pete goes dead again, his eyes darkening and the little fires in them going out. "I fucking feel like death," he tells Patrick.

No kidding. "Death is very _in_," Patrick says, trying to play it cool, even though he's worried. "Death and eyeliner. Two great tastes that taste great together."

"You are _retarded_," Pete says, burying his face in Patrick.

"It's not my fault you'd commit suicide if your hoodie got shrunk in the wash," Patrick says, trying to maintain some dignity and composure, which is hard when Pete is breathing on his neck. He's not wrong about his accusation, either. It's so not fair, but totally true. Pete probably would. It may be that Pete's petty and it may be that he attaches special significance to things like hoodies. Hey, if he's going to be a fuck-up, he's going to do it properly. Patrick pats his back.

"I hate people who think they're funny," Pete says, apropos of nothing. "And I hate people who steal jokes, and I hate people who hate on fast food, and I hate conservatives and taxi drivers and lawyers and people who make me get up too early, but I think mostly I just hate myself kind of a lot. And I wonder," he continues slowly, somewhat muffled by Patrick's shoulder, "if I'm broken." He sounds like he's never really considered this horrible possibility, even though Patrick knows he has.

"No," Patrick sighs. "You're not broken. I think you're just young."

"You're not, though," Pete says, and there's something weird in his voice, maybe envy, but probably not.

"I'm five years younger than you," Patrick says knowing that's not what Pete meant.

"Hmph." Pete nuzzles him again, and Patrick looks around for Joe and Andy. No sign of them. "You totally don't have the right to sing like that, then," Pete says after a moment.

"Whose voice is it, anyway?" Patrick asks, but he can't help smiling.

Pete shrugs. "Yours, I guess."

Patrick just wants to bang his head against walls and tell Pete that not every words out of his mouth needs poetic over-analysis.

Pete pulls back and looks Patrick in the eye. "I need your mouth," he says.

Patrick sputters for a second before he can even think about forming words. "You what?"

"Your mouth, I need it," Pete says, grinning hugely all of a sudden.

_Bi-polar_, Patrick wants to say, but he can't help but go with it. When Pete kisses him, he responds, even though his brain is still sort of catching up to his body.

"Sorry," Pete says, after a second.

Patrick shakes his head. "My best friend," he says, "is crazy. Please send help."

Pete laughs. "Yeah, no kidding. Hey, let's help load the van."

Patrick trails after Pete, still in shock. Well. If that's what Pete needs, that's what Pete is getting. Patrick's not going to complain.


End file.
